


Happy Just To Dance With You

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Other, post-HBP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-03
Updated: 2008-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:36:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For dacro from maidengurl's prompt: hands, hands in new places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Just To Dance With You

It's late sunset and the pink-blue-gold horizon glows in the depths of the martini glass sitting on the garden table.

Martini. Ron picks the glass up awkwardly, twists the thin crystal stem between his freckled fingers. A bit of clear liquid sloshes up the sides, highlighting the small, smudged fingerprints on the glass. A wry smile. He isn't much of a martini bloke. Beer, yes. Whisky, definitely. Wine, perhaps, on a special occasion., like Ginny's wedding or the christening of Percy and Penelope's latest.

Harry likes martinis. Dirty, extra dry, three olives.

It's a taste he picked up from Malfoy.

Ron fishes one of the salmon-stuffed olives from the glass, licking the gin and vermouth off his fingers with a grimace, and pops it into his mouth. He chews slowly, watching the waves roll onto the rocky shoreline below, watching the small, thin figure sitting on an outcropping of boulders in the distance.

"How long are you going to let him sit out there by himself?" Hermione drops onto the chaise next to him, stretching her legs in front of her and flexing toes tipped with pale pink polish; Ron glances over at her slim brown calves with appreciation.

"Seems like he wants to be alone."

Hermione twists her wet hair up, securing it with a wide clip. Ron winces as the plastic teeth bite into her hair with a sharp snap, barely missing her thin fingers. The clip wiggles for a moment, then settles into the damp brown mop with a purr as Hermione rubs it before slipping her hand to the nape of her neck, fingers twisting in a few escaped curls. She frowns down at the beach. "Sometimes you're oblivious, Ron."

Ron shrugs and sets Harry's martini glass aside. "What good will it do? He'll just tell me to leave him alone."

"The whole point of this holiday was to get his mind off-" Hermione sighs at Ron's glare. "It's been over a year."

Ron looks back out at Harry. "Takes a while sometimes."

Hermione says nothing.

Ron stands up. "Right. I'll go talk to him, then?" He stops at the door. "Beer?"

"On the kitchen counter."

Ron nods and closes the cottage door behind him.

****************************

Harry doesn't look up when Ron sits down on the rock next to him. He takes the beer Ron hands him silently, without even the faintest trace of a smile.

Bad day then, Ron notes.

He misses Harry's smile the most lately. He hardly ever sees it. Not even the pretense Harry used to give the Order when he didn't want the women to start pestering him and the men to start eyeing him. It's been months since he's seen the one that makes him grin in return-that bright, quick flash of teeth that crinkles those green eyes and makes them shine.

Ron taps his beer against Harry's. "Awfully quiet, mate."

"Just watching the water." Harry twists the beer between his hands. "Nice out here."

Ron's always liked Harry's hands. Thin and strong and brown and smooth. Ron's watched those hands hold a broom, a wand, a pint. He's seen them ruffle a child's hair, curl around a lover's hand. They've been empty too long, he thinks. Harry has hands that should be filled. Hands that look best holding, touching, caressing. Ron nods, looking out at the steady curl of waves sliding over the rocks. "Been thinking, have you?"

"Some." Harry stares out at the water. "Anything wrong with that?"

"Not at all, mate. Not at all." Ron shifts, the rock sharp against his arsecheek. He winces. "Might have picked a more comfortable spot."

Harry snorts and drinks his beer.

The silence isn't uncomfortable; it's just there. Nearly always. Ron's gotten used to it over the years, more so since the end of the war fourteen months ago. Harry doesn't talk often, but then again, neither does Ron. Losing both your parents and two brothers in one raid on Diagon Alley tends to make a bloke quiet, he reckons. Changes you a bit. At least that's what he tells himself.

Harry was the one who'd kept him and Ginny alive that day, pulling them out of the way just before Slug and Jiggers collapsed. Was the one who'd held Ron back, refusing to let him go after the bastards, was the one who'd slipped into his bed every night the next term, both lying next each other, staring up into the dark until they fell asleep.

Never touching though. Blokes don't touch. Not unless--yeah--and they weren't. Of course they weren't.

They never talk about those things. Blokes don't do that either.

Just like blokes don't talk about Sirius dying. Or Cedric. Or Remus. Or Hagrid. Or Dumbledore. Or Snape. Or Luna. Or Neville. Or Dean. Or Fred. Or George. Or Mum and Dad.

And blokes definitely don't talk about Malfoy.

"Malfoy then."

Harry tenses next to him, his bare toes curling against the sandy roughness of the boulder. "No."

Ron looks at Harry. He's avoiding Ron's gaze; his eyes are squinched up behind finger-smudged and salt-sprayed glasses. His black hair ruffles in the breeze; his shoulders are hunched, his too-large grey t-shirt gaping in the back.

Ron's never noticed how fragile Harry's neck looks.

"You miss him," Ron says, quietly, his eyes still fixed on that smooth curve of golden skin stretching into Harry's rumpled dark hair. He needs a haircut. Again.

Harry shrugs. "Sometimes," he says. He sets his beer aside, pulls his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around his legs. "You get used to it, though."

"Sometimes." Ron takes another sip of warm beer. "Depends. You know Malfoy was--"

Harry looks at Ron then, mouth thin. "Don't say he was a git."

"Only half of one, then. Enough to get his damn arse killed. Bloody fool to leave you behind."

Harry blinks, scowls, and then to Ron's surprise, smiles. Not much. But enough. "Yeah."

The tiny curve of Harry's mouth catches Ron's breath. He just nods and looks away.

And then Harry's hand is on his. "You know what I miss the most now?"

"What?" Ron hates that he sounds breathless; he's no idea what the bloody hell is wrong with him. But he can feel Harry's palm against the top of his hand and it's warm and heavy and his hand twists underneath Harry's, his palm brushes Harry's palm and his fingers slip through those too-short, too-thin fingers. He breathes out, somewhere in the back of his mind understanding this touch even though he doesn't. Not really.

"Dancing." Harry flushes and looks away. "We used to-I mean, he made fun of me, of course, but alone we'd-I think he liked it some. I always did." He breaks off. "Been a while since I've danced."

Ron's already pulling Harry to his feet.

"What are you doing?" Harry stumbles forward, falling into Ron's chest.

Ron catches him and somehow it's the most natural thing in the world to slide his arm around Harry's waist. "We're going to dance."

"Forget it, Ron." Harry tries to step away, but Ron stops him with a hand on his hip. They look at each other and everything holds for a moment. Even Ron's breath. And then Harry smiles again, a real smile, wide and open. "You're mad."

Ron nods slowly and his hand is pulling Harry up against him. "But you'll dance."

Harry slides his arm around Ron's neck and hides his face against Ron's t-shirt. His fingers twist around Ron's; his breath is warm on Ron's collarbone. "This is ridiculous, you know. There's not even any music."

Ron laughs. "We're wizards, Harry. Use a bloody charm."

Harry frowns and he pulls his wand from his pocket and Ron regrets his suggestion immediately, missing the feel of Harry pressed up against him. But he's back, fingers curling around Ron's again, hand slipping over Ron's shoulder and the Beatles are playing-Ron recognises the sound from hearing them every summer during the war, as the three of them lay sprawled across the floor of the Granger's sitting room, listening to Hermione's stereo.

Harry always had loved the Liverpudlians.

Harry steps on Ron's foot, hard. "Oh. Sorry." He blushes. "I've no rhythm."

"I reckon that's not true, Mr Seeker," Ron says easily, pulling Harry closer. His hand slips down to the small of Harry's back; his fingers are in the dip of Harry's spine, almost sliding into the loose waistband of Harry's shorts. He can smell Harry, smell his skin and his hair and beer and gin and sun and salt and something that is just always Harry-a sharp, bright scent that Ron can almost taste and that twists his stomach and sends a shiver of something Ron's not quite sure of down his spine, warming through his hips and cock.

"This is nice," Harry says with a laugh and he brushes up against Ron and his thigh presses forward and Ron tries to move backwards, but he's too late and Harry stands still suddenly.

Ron starts to pull away, but Harry stops him.

"Ron."

He doesn't look at Harry; he can't. But every inch of his skin is aware of Harry next to him; his fingers can't seem to slip out of Harry's.

"Ron," Harry says again, softer this time.

Ron looks at him now, his eyes focused on Harry's mouth. "Yeah."

And then Harry's hands are on his face, and his lips are there too and Ron's being kissed and he knows he should be surprised and he is but he's not. Harry's lips are soft and they're warm and when he opens his mouth against Ron's, Ron can't stop himself.

He knows he shouldn't; he knows Harry's hurting still, that he misses Malfoy, that he misses them all, all the ones who are gone, but Ron misses people too and he needs this, he needs Harry and Harry's tongue is on his and their teeth bump painfully and Harry laughs into Ron's mouth and presses against him and Ron can feel Harry's cock moving against his, their shorts shifting, and he groans.

"Harry-"

"Dance with me," Harry whispers, his hands sliding into Ron's hair, red-gold locks twisting around his brown fingers. "We think too much, you and me. We should stop thinking and just dance."

Ron nods. "Just dance."

And the Beatles are singing and the cold waves are lapping at their feet and the stars are coming out above them and Ron's dancing with Harry and Harry's kissing him and his hands are on Harry's hips and then his arse and for the first time in years Ron's happy.

Just to dance.


End file.
